


When Comes the Dawn

by awintersrose



Category: Naruto
Genre: Akatsuki Gift Exchange 2020, Alternate Universe - Time Travel, Amegakure, Gen, Gift Fic, Infinite Tsukuyomi messed things up, Or might have opened the door to fix them, Orochimaru is in Akatsuki again, Seems the end is only the beginning, With decisions to make
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-27
Updated: 2020-12-27
Packaged: 2021-03-11 03:47:42
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,253
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28368633
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/awintersrose/pseuds/awintersrose
Summary: At the height of the Fourth Shinobi War, Orochimaru wakes from unconsciousness to find himself returned to his younger body, in a place he hardly expected - Amegakure.
Comments: 4
Kudos: 38
Collections: Akatsuki Gift Exchange





	When Comes the Dawn

**Author's Note:**

  * For [BoyGirlBothNoneImTheUniverse](https://archiveofourown.org/users/BoyGirlBothNoneImTheUniverse/gifts).



> My gift to @fuckyoucanada on Tumblr for the Akatsuki Gift Exchange. The prompt was Time Travel/Change of heart with the setting in Amegakure. Hope you enjoy! Happy Holidays <3

Orochimaru was not prepared for the shock of waking.

Sleep has always been a transient visitor at best; a necessity, a luxury even, something to be taken only when needed and no more. To wake in foreign space, however, is much more startling than anything should be at this age, let alone after living, dying, and living again.

He can scarcely remember much from his last moments apart from a raging battlefield and the unnaturally radiant crimson moon, which is alarming on its own. Now he’s here, in a locale that makes the moment even more jarring than he might have thought possible. There is only one place so cold and damp that it feels like small shards of ice are tunneling beneath his skin, something he can feel even within the interior space of a fortress, which is where he knows he is despite the dim light.

Amegakure. The Akatsuki.

It’s a period in his life faded to murky memory - now pulled to the forefront of his reality in new and vivid detail despite the darkness surrounding his physical form.

The sleeping chamber is illuminated in faint relief by a dying brazier in the far corner lending the room its scant warmth. There are no windows here, a reminder that this chamber is at once both secure and much like a prison all at the same time.

Even more so, his body, once a shell he’d shed in favor of another more suited to his purposes and goals, his body is his again. He’d forgotten how it felt, to be at one with himself in his own form, and not a vessel - a whole and almost ordinary shinobi - as if Orochimaru of all people could be called ordinary in this way. And still in this moment, this body is exactly that.

Orochimaru knows it from the flow of chakra, the catch in his chest, the knives of the cold that seep into his very bones. The chill and the wet are pervasive and insidious, something he was never able to assuage completely, calmed only by the desperate wrapping of a heating jutsu through his veins and around his body. Though so much younger, there is the ache of an injury in his right leg, never quite recovered after so many healings - ever more proof of human fragility and the need to be rid of it.

The quiet is also noteworthy. His mind is _his alone_ , his subconscious no longer shared by the former inhabitants of his corporeal vessels, waiting, always waiting, under seals of steel, stone, and everything his mind could conjure to jail them.

There is something almost strange about allowing himself the lack of defenses now that he no longer needs them, as if at any moment some phantom will steal inside his psyche to strike from within.

Nonetheless, he lines his mindscape with defense after defense out of habit - there is no telling what may happen here. After all, he is not the only monster in residence. The Akatsuki is filled with them.

Memories pour forth with an acidic bite, burning and eating away at him exactly where he is most vulnerable - Jiraiya, Tsunade. A village rotten at its very core. More children played like pawns on a shogi board. Too close is the recollection of becoming a scapegoat and an alibi for more powerful men due to the shape of his mind and ambitions, for which he still holds no apology.

Remorse is a curious emotion, one he’s never managed well, but having died once, it leaves him contemplative, thoughts spinning back to the last moments he was conscious. That Orochimaru is here at all, when the last thing he recalled was apocalyptic levels of chaos on a battlefield only moments before - well, that opens a great deal of possibilities for which he has few answers.

And so he rises from the neat futon, regretting the loss of warm, heavy bedlinens, pulling the all-too-familiar red-cloud embroidered robe tight around his body. It’s then that Orochimaru catches sight of the second futon a small distance away from his own, and to his inward embarrassment, is startled all over again. In his haste to shield, his usual grace is lost, and his foot disturbs a decorative vase - a curious addition to the sparse room - until he remembers why it’s there.

“It’s too early for your noise, snake.” A light hiss cuts through the silence.

Orochimaru chides himself at the lack of awareness, the result of his own defenses no doubt, but an oversight to be sure… and likely the result of other defenses lining the room. He turns to see small, sleepy-eyed Sasori on his own futon nearby, without the guarding shell of Hiruko.

Of all sights to be greeted with, this one is the most surprising, and yet it shouldn’t be. Still, he should have sensed Sasori, scented him. Even now, the scent of cedarwood and honing oil from the Suna nin’s puppets and tools, various nightshade poisons, they all linger, and so does the dim glow of Sasori’s chakra. The seals in the room are partially to blame, with the way they are set to dampen sensory input for the sake of rest… but there really is no excuse.

His partner, how could he have forgotten? A partner in more than business down the line, and an association turned to pure rancor in the end. Yet now they must have attained some form of trust given Sasori’s willingness to show his true face.

The scorpion is no softer, no sweeter, nor was he ever. That acerbic voice still feels almost like home, reminding Orochimaru of a place forgotten in dreams, a place that was truly a refuge built on shifting sand - never meant to be real.

What is real is the here and the now.

“My apologies, I could not sleep any longer - I thought it better not to waste the hours.” An excuse of any kind will be suitable, he’s sure of it. There is no telling exactly what point in time he’s landed in, and he needs to find out as this information is vital to his next course of action.

Sasori studies him a moment, expression unreadable. “Suit yourself. But you better not slow us down. Don’t disturb me again.”

There are too many old memories to fall into, looking down at the once-familiar sight of messy russet hair and tawny eyes glaring at him before falling closed in slumber once more.

Still cautious then. All the better. Nothing can be as it was in this new turning of the wheel, or whatever may be in this upside-down world of destiny’s creation, though knowing Sasori as he does, it is very possible that his sleeping partner is very much awake and paying attention to his actions. As Orochimaru recalls, it was the puppet master’s way for a very long time.

Orochimaru’s gut churns as he contemplates the implications of his predicament, though predicament is now far too light a manner of stating the nature of his current position.

He could commence his plans for this point in his life with far more experience and knowledge at hand - the Uchiha are a dead end, and so are many of his previous methods. Jinchuuriki on the other hand, ripe possibilities -- but no. None of it truly amounts to his gain with Akatsuki looming, and Madara acting as puppet master via young Obito almost as skillfully as Sasori wields his own creations.

And then there is all the loss…

Nagato. Konan. Yahiko. Jiraiya’s orphans are the key, aren’t they? Alive. Well, mostly alive - in the way the serpent always managed to be. And even they are but another elder’s pawns here and now.

Akatsuki is but a fantasy that will end in death, and a nightmare for the rest of humanity.

Which leaves a choice to be made, and far too much of a burden on his shoulders - one rife with the scent of redemption, when every ounce of selfish sensibility within him says to turn this possibility into opportunity.

What a quandary Orochimaru’s managed to place himself in, or perhaps the Goddess of his clan, the fates, or whoever is in control of the fabric of destiny - because despite his manifold attempts, one thing is certain: the Sannin has had no hand in the path that led him back to this godforsaken country.

Maybe he is dead, and this is some kind of atonement dimension he’s earned now that he’s not the quarry of the Shinigami, like the stories Kato Dan used to trade with him once upon a time, in a past life that feels more and more like a dream. That dream reminds him of what was lost in the life he woke from.

A life that could have been far different were certain paths not divided.

He thinks upon his last exchange with Tsunade, at the realization that Jiraiya was lost to them, like a knife in the heart he’d love to be rid of.

In this world, Jiraiya might not have to die.

There are many who might laugh to think that Orochimaru of the Densetsu no Sannin, Otokage and notorious nukenin, immoral scientist unparalleled and heartless killer of innocents would hope to save the world for the sake of saving one person’s life.

But Jiraiya is one loss he still cannot quite believe, and if the world would ever need to be rid of the sage, the only one worthy of such an honor is another of the Sannin. They are three indivisible, bound regardless of the ravages of time and death.

As for his goals, who is to say he cannot have what he wants and manage a new kind of infamy in the process?

Orochimaru is living, breathing proof that the very gods of death seem to negotiate everything in their safekeeping when they have amusements at stake. If he is indeed dead, they must find this series of misadventures especially amusing to keep sending him back.

Presuming this trip to the past has real ramifications, all he has to do is walk outside that door, and make a choice.

So he moves, but the floor beneath his feet feels less than steady. Slender, pale fingers run through the sleep-mussed strands of his own dark hair, pausing to straighten his sleeves, a grounding action to give his breath a chance to find a stable cadence; for his mind to quiet and clear.

Another hand to the doorknob, bracing against the cool air as it comes. Then one foot in front of the other, as his steps follow muscle memory to his current leader’s chambers.

For good or for ill, there is a long conversation to be had.

The halls of the hideout are close and dark for all that the edifice itself is so sprawling. Each set of operating pairs have been assigned their own sets of rooms for whatever purposes might be needed - but based on duties, and based on the current timeline, Orochimaru is very curious about just who might be present here and now.

Murmuring voices echo from one common area exuding warmth - he knows there is a fireplace and kitchen there, one of the few locations in which any of them might cross paths. The glow of chakra is large, and dark, not muted, never muted, indicative of a certain taciturn immortal who sees no use in hiding.

Kakuzu is here, then - useful. Another to curry favor with once the initial seeds are sown.

Orochimaru continues walking despite the temptation to stop, in the direction of the corridor leading to the wing that belongs to Pein and the ‘Lady Angel’ of Amegakure, Konan. If he’s seen, he has a perfect alibi. As he grows closer, his recollection of the entire fortress grows sharper and more immediate, until the clatter of metal and a bumbling exclamation in the distance stops him in his tracks.

“Sage’s butt! It’ll be my butt if these kunai butts got messy…hahahaha…”

The echoing, childlike voice is unmistakable. How wonderfully fortunate. Orochimaru doesn’t even have to search any longer, seeking instead the source of that voice, and the chakra to match it, the scent.

The snake Sannin finds it in the young masked apprentice of the Akatsuki, surrounded by a basketful of fallen weapons in one of the maze-like hallways after rounding two corners in the opposite direction.

Tobi sees him immediately and leaps like a startled frog to his feet, “Orochimaru-sama! Need supplies? I have a ton - they just uh, took a trip... Get it? A trip!” The boy laughs at his own joke and moves to pick up more of his dropped items.

“No, no, Tobi-kun… what I need is a moment,” Orochimaru smiles, crossing his arms.

“Ummm… We’ve got a lot of those, a whole day of em’. It’s really early.”

Orochimaru swiftly casts a silencing jutsu over the hallway, and fixes his sight on the apprentice. “It is indeed quite early, which leads to a fruitful day, Uchiha Obito.”

Tobi freezes, the crimson glow of a Sharingan suddenly emanating from his mask with a lethality Orochimaru could never forget. When he speaks, his voice is no longer that of the childlike jokester from before. “Be careful with that name, Orochimaru-sama.”

“I plan to be. We need to have a long talk, you and I.” Orochimaru approaches him, hands open, knowing the risk, but calculating his choices.

He has little left to lose, and a whole world to gain.


End file.
